


I Find My Home in You

by ThePlumPyre



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Doropetra, Dorothea is Not Entirely Human, F/F, Petra Doesn't Care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlumPyre/pseuds/ThePlumPyre
Summary: Petra shoots a dress and finds herself living with the enigma that is Dorothea.She's not complaining though (far from it).
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	I Find My Home in You

Surrounded by the dense undergrowth and towering trees of the forest, Petra inhales deeply. The air is light and fragrant, smelling of moss and dirt. The heat of these precious few days during the peak of the Adrestian summer feel so similar to the days of Petra’s childhood, the days spent on the beaches and in the forests of Brigid. Inhaling again, Petra savours the smells of the forest before kneeling, hiding herself in the dense, green foliage of the shrubs and bushes. 

There is salt lick in the clearing here, a place where deer like to gather to consume valuable minerals that have concentrated themselves on the forest floor. Petra readies her bow and arrows and waits for her prey to present itself. She waits and watches, but no deer appear. Ever patient, Petra remains motionless. However, something pulls Petra’s attention away from her hunt, a whisper of a voice.

Petra furrows her brow in confusion; no one but her ventures into these parts of the forest. Petra rises, bow drawn but at her side. Listening hard, Petra recognizes the voice is coming from over the hill, just beyond the clearing. Moving quickly and silently, Petra creeps along the edges of the clearing towards the hill. As Petra gets closer, the voice grows louder. Someone is singing, Petra realizes. 

Petra drops lower, crouching and climbing the small hill, careful to keep out of sight with her bow drawn and ready. Reaching the top, Petra peers over the peak and gasps. There is a small spring nestled between a few large rocks. The spring water is bright and clear. The spring is a beautiful little thing, but it’s not what has captured Petra’s attention so completely. 

There is a woman waist deep in the spring, singing as she bathes. Her voice is clear, bright, and powerful. The morning sun makes her skin glisten, beads of water trickling down her chest and arms. Petra is spellbound, forgetting herself and rising to get a better look.

The siren in the spring gasps as she spots Petra, her song abandoned as she covers her chest with her arms. Equally stunned at being spotted, Petra fumbles with her bow, accidentally letting her arrow fly. A vermillion dress flutters and flaps in the breeze as it hangs on a tree branch a little ways from the spring. Petra’s arrow pierces the fabric and pins the dress to the trunk of the tree with a resounding thunk.

“Well, this isn’t good,” the woman fusses, looking to her dress. 

Petra feels an apology reflexively and immediately begin to form in her mother tongue before she catches herself and switches back to the language of Fódlan.

“Please take my apologies,” Petra stammers, storing her bow, moving to the tree, and pulling her arrow out. “I am having much regret!”

“It’s generally considered quite rude to spy on someone while they bathe,” the woman chides, eyeing Petra warily. 

“I was not s–,” Petra cuts herself off, flushing when she realizes that is exactly what she was doing. “I was not having the intention of spying. I have a deepest regret and shame for my actions.”

“Hmm. That’s okay,” the woman decides. “I forgive you. Hand me my dress and shoes, won’t you?”

Petra unhooks the dress from the branch it hangs on and grabs the pair of shoes under it. Approaching the woman, Petra quickly looks to her feet, feeling her cheeks flush with warmth as the woman climbs out of the spring. 

“My name is Dorothea,” the woman introduces herself as she dresses. “What is your name?”

“I am Petra,” Petra says, eyes still fixed on the ground. 

“You can look now,” Dorothea giggles. “I’m dressed.”

Looking back up, Petra takes in the sight of Dorothea in her red dress. The dress is long, covering Dorothea’s feet, and the sleeves are loose, almost wing-like. The shimmery vermillion material shines under the sun. Dorothea looks radiant, like a princess from those fairy tales Fódlan’s parents are so fond of telling their children. However, Dorothea frets, fussing over a large hole in the dress where Petra had shot it. The hole sits high on Dorothea’s thigh, and she frowns as she picks at it.

“I have regret for shooting your dress,” Petra apologizes again. “Please take my apologies.” 

“It’s alright,” Dorothea sighs, fiddling with the fabric. “It’ll take a while to fix though.”

“I will repair it,” Petra offers. 

“That’s sweet of you to offer,” Dorothea laughs, “but I don’t think you could repair a dress like this.”

“I will find one who can,” Petra counter offers.

“Human hands cannot repair what human hands broke. Magic is complex like that.”

“I do not have understanding of magic,” Petra admits, thinking of her subpar skill in reason and faith. “I can repair without it.”

“I do not think that you understand my meaning.” 

“I have not yet mastered the language of Fódlan.”

“Hmmm. It’s not a language barrier we’re facing here.”

“Please be giving me a chance to make right my mistake,” Petra request earnestly. “Come back with me.”

“Well, I suppose there is no harm in letting you try,” Dorothea decides. “I’ll go with you.” 

Petra moves through the forest at a slower pace in order to be mindful of Dorothea who trails a few steps behind her. 

“Your voice has beauty,” Petra says, helping Dorothea climb over a large rock.

“Thank you,” Dorothea says with a soft smile.

“Were you lost?” Petra asks. “It is unusual to be so deep in the forest.” 

“Not at all! I often come to that spring to bathe; the water is the cleanest I’ve encountered.” 

“Where are you living?” Petra asks. 

Dorothea points to the sky. Petra follows Dorothea’s finger, looks up, looks back at Dorothea, and waits for her to elaborate. When it becomes apparent that Dorothea is satisfied with her explanation, Petra presses her.

“You are not of Fódlan?”

“I am not,” Dorothea states with a nod.

“I have understanding,” Petra says with a smile. “My home is Brigid. Where is your home?”

Dorothea points to the sky again.

“Morfis?” Petra guesses. 

Dorothea shakes her head and points skyward yet again.

“How?”

“I flew down to your world on a bridge of magpies,” Dorothea answers.

Petra stops walking, and Dorothea pauses as well. Petra stares at Dorothea long and hard, but Dorothea holds her gaze.

“I will not be asking any more questions,” Petra ventures cautiously, studying Dorothea’s reactions carefully, “if you _cannot_ be answering them.”

“I can answer whatever questions you have,” Dorothea assures.

Petra frowns, dissatisfied. Dorothea smiles. 

“Perhaps I am not capable of understanding,” Petra sighs. “It does not matter.”

The rest of the walk to Petra’s cabin is less serious. Dorothea is charming and kind, a good conversationalist. Eventually, the undergrowth thins out and the trees seem to get taller and wider. Light speckles the forest floor, the lush and dense canopy of leaves scattering the sunlight. Eventually, Petra leads Dorothea into a clearing. A creek bubbles along one edge of it; in the middle of the clearing is a small log cabin. 

“Welcome,” Petra unlocks the door and opens it for Dorothea. 

“Your cabin looks so rustic and charming,” Dorothea says walking into Petra’s home, slipping off her shoes and looking around. 

There are furs everywhere, hanging on the walls, fur rugs on the wooden floor, furs draped over the furniture. The main room has a fireplace with a few pots and pans hanging over it, a chair, a few stools, a table, and a couch. There is another room, a doorway with the door slightly ajar, and when Dorothea peeks in, she can tell that it is Petra’s bedroom. 

“Dorothea,” Petra says, holding out a dress of her own. “Please be putting this on. I will repair your dress.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Dorothea agrees, taking the robe from Petra. “This is a beautiful dress, by the way, Petra.” 

“It is from my home, Brigid,” Petra explains. “It has length and sleeves to keep out the cold.”

“It’s not very thick fabric though.”

“Brigid does not have much cold, even in winter.”

“The embroidery is stunning,” Dorothea notes with awe, running a finger over the patterns sewn into the collar of the dress. “I’ll change now.”

Petra waits in her bedroom while Dorothea changes, returning only when Dorothea invites her too. Sitting on the couch, Petra threads a needle and tries to work it into the fabric of Dorothea’s vermillion gown. Dorothea sits next to Petra, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Resting her chin in her palm, Dorothea watches as Petra tries –and fails– to repair the hole. 

“I have confusion,” Petra mutters, squinting at the dress and stabbing at it in frustration.

None of Petra’s stitches hold, her thread slipping through and out of the fabric. Frowning, Petra tries over and over again, but she might as well be trying to sew water together. 

“It will repair itself,” Dorothea assures, sensing Petra’s frustration. “It just needs time.”

“Please, take my apologies,” Petra sighs, returning the dress to Dorothea. “Please, be keeping my dress.”

“Oh! I couldn’t!”

“I have insistence! Take it as my apology.”

“Alright.”

“Please, be allowing me to escort you home,” Petra offers. 

Dorothea looks at the red dress in her hands, the hole in the fabric of it.

“I can’t,” Dorothea admits. “I cannot return home until my dress is whole again.”

Petra remembers Dorothea’s apparent inability to talk about where she comes from, pointing at the sky without an adequate explanation. 

_“Is she running away?”_ Petra wonders. _“Is someone trying to hurt her?”_

“If not home, are you having somewhere else to stay?” Petra asks.

Dorothea shakes her head, frowning. 

“Be staying with me!” Petra offers. “Stay until your dress… repairs.”

“Oh! I couldn’t put you out like that, Petra!”

“I am having insistence,” Petra says. “Allow me to assist you and make right my mistake.”

“I don’t know about that.”  
  
“Please. Be giving me this chance.”

“If you insist,” Dorothea concedes. “You have to let me help out though!”

With that, Petra finds her cabin a little fuller. 

Dorothea sleeps on the couch, settling into Petra’s life from there. Their first summer together is a learning period. Petra learns that Dorothea cannot cook, and Dorothea learns that Petra snores, a series of soft little whistles as she sleeps. Petra hunts, skins, tans, and sells both meat and hide in a nearby village. While Petra works, Dorothea takes over Petra’s neglected garden, salvaging whatever plants she can and nurturing them back to health. Petra cooks while Dorothea cleans and mends.

Petra notices that Dorothea sings throughout it all. She sings while she gardens, while she mends, and while she cleans. Dorothea sings happy little tunes while she works, and Petra savours the music. When Petra returns from a hunt, she can hear Dorothea singing to her garden long before Petra can even see the cabin. Petra loves Dorothea’s voice, how rich it is, how strong and vibrant it is. 

All in all, Petra is pleasantly surprised. She had thought it would be difficult adjusting to the needs and presence of another human after being alone for so long. However, living with Dorothea comes as naturally to Petra as breathing. Dorothea fits herself perfectly into every facet of Petra’s life. It’s only been a few months, but Petra can barely remember what it felt like to not have Dorothea be a part of her. 

“Dinner was delicious,” Dorothea says, drawing Petra from her thoughts. “Thank you.”

“There is no need for thanks,” Petra returns with a smile. “The garden has great beauty. Your carrots are most delicious!”

Dorothea flushes with pride and pleasure at the praise. Humming quietly, Dorothea cuts her meat into bite sized pieces. 

“Who was teaching you to sing?” Petra asks suddenly. “Your mother? Your father?” 

Dorothea freezes, stops her humming.

“No to both,” Dorothea says, voice tight. 

Petra, sensing Dorothea’s unease elects to stay silent.

“Manuela,” Dorothea says after a pause, her voice warm and kind once again. “Manuela taught me how to sing.”

“She is being your family?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose she is.” 

“Manuela, she was giving you your singing. She was giving you your kindness too?”

“Perhaps!” Dorothea laughs. “I’m not sure you could call her ‘kind’ though. Manuela taught me effort, survival, tenacity.”

“Those lessons are having importance!”

“And you?” Dorothea questions. “What of your family?”

“They are in Brigid,” Petra answers with a wistful smile. “One day, I will be returning to Brigid.”

“You must miss them,” Dorothea realizes, reaching across the table and taking Petra’s hand into her own, comfortingly. 

“Yes,” Petra sighs, smiling gratefully when Dorothea gives her hand a comforting squeeze. “I have great longing.” 

“Tell me about Brigid,” Dorothea offers. 

“Brigid has great heat,” Petra says, voice joyful again as she describes her homeland. “There are many plants and animals.”

“What type of animals?”

“Birds who are being many beautiful colours and having many different types of songs!”

Petra tells Dorothea of the songbirds, the wildcats, and the fish who would leap so high out of the water that it would look as if they are flying. Dorothea listens attentively, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Petra tells Dorothea the tales of her homeland, glad to have someone she can share it with. 

“Brigid sounds beautiful,” Dorothea whispers in awe once Petra is done recounting the stories of her home.

“Most beautiful,” Petra agrees, eyes fixated on Dorothea.

Dorothea nods, squeezing Petra’s hand with her own. They have not let go of each other this whole time. 

* * *

Fall settles into the forest. The first frost of the season paints the garden with white, the snap of cold killing the plants. Without her garden and with the new nip of cold in the air, Dorothea finds herself indoors more and more. As a chill settles into the air and the leaves begin to fall, Petra finds herself closer and closer to Dorothea.

“What are you doing?” Dorothea asks, watching Petra work.

“I will be ensuring my arrowheads have sharpness,” Petra answers, unwrapping a whetstone.

“I will help,” Dorothea decides, grabbing another whetstone and an arrowhead and sitting across from Petra. 

“I have gratitude.”

“I like doing things with you,” Dorothea says with a brilliant grin.

Looking at Dorothea’s unguarded and genuine smile, Petra feels her cheeks warm. Turning back to her arrowheads, Petra tries –and fails– to will away the warmth of her cheeks.  
  
“How are you faring with your embroidery?” Petra asks.

“Very well! Thank you for making me a new frame,” Dorothea chirps. “The frame is wonderful, by the way. I’ll be finished my latest piece soon.”

“I have anticipation!”

“I can’t wait to show you!” Dorothea gushes. “I’m really quite proud of myself this time.” 

“I have great anticipation!”

“Just give me a little bit longer!”

“Be having as much time as you need,” Petra laughs, assuring Dorothea. “I have much patience.”

“It’s fairly floral,” Dorothea describes her latest piece as she sharpens an arrowhead. 

“You have much love for flowers,” Petra notes, looking to the old table runner on the kitchen table now embroidered with daisies and the pillows on the couch (Dorothea’s bed?) now embroidered with violets. 

“Flowers are beautiful.”

“I have agreement.”

“What’s your favourite flower, Petra?” Dorothea asks.

“Sunflowers,” Petra answers after a moment of contemplation; finishing sharpening one arrowhead, Petra swaps it out for another dull one and begins sharpening again. 

“That’s a good choice,” Dorothea says, nodding.

“They have strength,” Petra elaborates. “They have oil, food too.” 

“Sunflowers are beautiful, useful, and tasty,” Dorothea summarizes. “I like them too.”

“Which flower has your favour?”

“Roses,” Dorothea answers right away. 

_“They are beautiful. However, no flower could be as beautiful as you, Dorothea,”_ Petra thinks but doesn’t say aloud because she isn’t an idiot. 

Instead, Petra responds to Dorothea with a nod and smile. 

“They’re beautiful,” Dorothea sighs, “but they have thorns too.”

“They have danger,” Petra agrees. “Those who have great beauty must also have danger in order to protect themselves.”

“Nothing beautiful stays that way,” Dorothea hums. “Not in this world, anyways.”  
  
“Change is not always being bad, Dorothea,” Petra argues.

“Is that so? I don’t know if I’ll be here long enough to find out.”   
  
“You wish to be leaving?”

“Not now. My dress still has a hole; it hasn’t quite made itself right yet.” 

Petra chooses not to ask any questions.

“Am I still welcome, here with you, Petra?” Dorothea asks, suddenly timid.

“Always and forever,” Petra responds instantly, without thought. 

“Is that so?” Dorothea asks again, chuckling bitterly. “You aren’t sick of me yet?”  
  
“Never.”

“Okay,” Dorothea laughs, voice light and happy once again. “I will try to believe you.” 

“Dorothea! I hav–” Petra gasps, jumping to her feet and dropping her arrowhead and whetstone.

In her distraction, Petra has sliced her finger open. 

“Petra!” Dorothea gasps, settling aside her own arrowhead and whetstone and standing. “Give me your hand!”

Petra reaches out, giving Dorothea her hand, hissing when Dorothea moves Petra’s hand a little in order to better see the cut. The cut is alarmingly deep, blood gushing out of the wound and dripping onto the wooden floor. Clicking her tongue, Dorothea starts singing, and a pulsing glow settles over Petra’s finger. Petra gasps as the pain and blood vanish. 

“There!” Dorothea declares with a grin. “All better!”

Petra pulls her hand from Dorothea’s own. Bringing her previously bloody, injured finger to her face, Petra inspects it. 

“I have not scarred,” Petra gasps. “Dorothea, you are having great triumph with magic!”

“Hmmm, it’s not the same magic that you’re probably used to seeing,” Dorothea says. 

“It is being superior!”

“True,” Dorothea laughs. “But also not entirely true.”

Petra frowns, furrowing her brow in confusion.

“My magic is more than you humans can achieve,” Dorothea explains. “It’s different down to its very essence.”

“I do not have understanding.”

“And you don’t need to!”

“But–”

“It’s not that interesting,” Dorothea interrupts. “I think you’re much more interesting anyways.”  
  
“Me?” Petra asks, confused. 

“It’s how you live your life,” Dorothea sighs. “I admire you. I envy you.”

“You are unable to live your life to your satisfaction?” Petra asks. 

Dorothea shakes her head sadly.

“Why?”  
  
“Rules,” Dorothea answers. 

“Rules can be broken!”

“Not these ones,” Dorothea says, voice saturated with bitterness. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”  
  
“I will be helping you then,” Petra decides with determination. “I will be helping you break the rules and build the life you desire!”   
  
“I would love that,” Dorothea says, considering Petra’s promise. “I’ll hold you to it then!”   
  
“Hold me?” Petra asks, cheeks suddening feeling quite warm. 

Dorothea reaches out and takes Petra’s healed hand, cradling it between her own two. 

“Does it still hurt?” Dorothea asks.

Petra is too distracted by the warmth of Dorothea’s hands, how soft they feel holding her own. Taking Petra’s silence as affirmation of pain, Dorothea brings Petra’s hand to her face and presses a kiss to where Petra’s injury once was. 

“Better?” Dorothea asks, pressing another kiss to Petra’s finger before letting her go.

“Yes!” Petra yelps, feeling as though her face is on fire. 

“My mother use to do that,” Dorothea reminisces. “She would kiss my scrapes and cuts when I was a child.”

“Manuela?” 

“No. My _mother_.” 

“Dorothea–,”

“It’s one of the only memories I have left of her,” Dorothea says, voice wistful and contemplative but not sad.

Petra reaches out this time, takes Dorothea’s hand in her own. 

“I have gratitude,” Petra whispers, running a thumb back and forth over the back of Dorothea’s hand, “for your words about your mother.”

“I like sharing things with you, Petra. I feel safe with you.”

“Your words are filling my heart with joy, Dorothea.”

Dorothea smiles, so brilliant and genuine that Petra swears her heart skips a beat.  
  
“Being here with you, Petra, this is the happiest I’ve ever been,” Dorothea confesses.   
  
“Stay,” Petra offers. “Dorothea, my home is yours.”   
  
“You don’t mean that,” Dorothea says, offering Petra an out, a way to take back her words.

“I am resolute in my meaning,” Petra counters, giving Dorothea’s hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Okay,” Dorothea whispers, blushing. “I accept.”

When Petra leans in, Dorothea meets her halfway. Dorothea’s lips are soft, warm against Petra’s own, and Petra feels something tender and protective unfurl in her chest as they kiss.

* * *

Winter offers Petra a stillness, a lull from the hectic preparations of fall and the intense rush of spring. Petra spends her winter wrapped up in Dorothea; the couch is a couch again, as Dorothea spends her nights with Petra in her bed now. Petra has never known a happiness like she has now. However, each kiss, each new detail, each new intimacy revealed is not enough for Petra. If anything, it only makes Petra crave even more of Dorothea. Petra has not known a hunger like this before either.

This particular night is cold, and it’s snowing, fluffy white flakes fluttering down around the cabin throughout the dark winter night. Safe and warm indoors, Petra and Dorothea are wrapped up in each other, skin to skin under their blankets. Petra lies pressed to Dorothea’s side, resting her head on Dorothea’s chest with a leg thrown over Dorothea’s own. Snuggling close, Petra listens to the sounds of Dorothea’s heartbeat. Dorothea holds Petra to her, lazily stroking Petra’s hair. 

“My dearest,” Dorothea coos, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind Petra’s ear. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Petra answers instantly and honestly, turning her head a bit to press a kiss onto Dorothea’s collarbone. 

“Petra!” Dorothea gasps. 

“I am speaking truth,” Petra murmurs. “My thoughts are being full of you.”

Dorothea blushes, smiling warmly at the woman in her arms. 

“Is that so?” Dorothea asks, tapping Petra’s nose with her index finger. “I suppose that’s fair, seeing as how my thoughts are occupied by you.”

Petra presses another kiss to Dorothea’s collarbone, and they settle into a comfortable silence. 

“Did you get many hares today?” Dorothea asks after a few minutes.

“Seven!” Petra answers, delighted. “I had great luck!” 

“That’s a lot!” Dorothea gasps, impressed. 

Petra smiles, pride welling up in her chest at Dorothea’s approval.

“Their pelts are worth more in winter too, aren’t they?”

“Yes, their winter furs are being…,” Petra trails off, a word escaping her.

“Being?” Dorothea prompts after a few moments of silence.

“More. More hairs.”

“Thicker fur then.” 

Petra nods. 

The pair drifts back into comfortable silence. Petra feels herself begin to drift off to sleep, listening to Dorothea’s heartbeat and having her hair stroked so gently. 

“Petra?” Dorothea asks.

Petra hums, groggy and sleepy.

“Why are you here?” Dorothea asks.

“I do not have understanding,” Petra yawns. 

“Why are you here… and not in Brigid?”

Petra freezes, awake instantly. 

“Sorry! You don’t have to answer that,” Dorothea tries to retract her question when she feels Petra tense in her arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Do not have regret, Dorothea,” Petra sighs. “I will be telling you.”

“Only if you want to.”

“I am being here, in Fódlan, because I was not having choice, not having freedom.”

Dorothea nods, no longer stroking Petra’s hair. Instead, Dorothea holds Petra’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“I was being stolen from my home when I was being a child.”

“Petra,” Dorothea says sadly, heart breaking for the woman in her arms.

“One day, I will be returning home,” Petra promises, voice strong with conviction.

Dorothea brings their interlaced fingers to her mouth, pressing a few sweet little kisses to Petra’s fingertips. 

“I will be returning home. I will be bringing you with me, Dorothea.”

“I would love that.”

“Dorothea, why are you being here?” Petra asks now. “Where are you being from?”

“I’ve told you before,” Dorothea giggles. “Remember? When we first met.”

Petra does remember. She remembers Dorothea’s seemingly meaningless and insufficient gestures and explanations. 

“I’ll refresh your memory,” Dorothea says. “The world I’m from sits on top of yours, beyond the sky.”

Petra nods, confused but trying her best to understand. Is this what the people of Fódlan called a metaphor?

“I’m not suppose to come down to your world,” Dorothea admits, “but you humans are just so fascinating!”

Petra nods again.

“I just had to come down and see! My world is very boring. There are a lot of rules that I have to follow. A lot of things I can’t do and a lot of things I have to do. Here, I don’t have rules. Your magpies fly very high, Petra. I taught them how to sing.”

“Taught them...?”

“Yes! I taught them how to sing, and in return, they make a bridge for me to come to your world and a bridge back when I’m done here. I snuck out many times, and I was never caught!” 

Petra considers this information. Dorothea sounds honest, her gaze unwavering.

“I have belief,” Petra decides. “I do not have understanding, but I have belief.”

“Thank you,” Dorothea says. “However, I can’t go back now.”

“Is this being due to me? Shooting your dress?”

“Yes. Don’t start with your apologies again, Petra! It’s fine. I mean it! I have never been able to stay this long before.” 

“Is you dress still needing repair?”

Dorothea looks away, furrowing her brows, and frowning. She squeezes Petra’s hand a bit tighter. 

“Dorothea?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Are you having a wish to go home?”

“Where else would I go?” Dorothea asks, voice so small and weak.

“My home is yours,” Petra reminds Dorothea. 

“For now.”

“No. Forever. If you are having that wish.”

“Petra, I… Do you mean that?”

“If you are not having a wish to return home, please, be staying with me. Forever.”

Dorothea feels her eyes well, tears starting to gather in the corners of them. 

“Everything I have, everything I am is yours,” Petra promises, resolute and earnest.

“Petra,” Dorothea says, trying her best not to cry, “you are my home.”

Petra brings their hands, fingers still interlaced, to her mouth. Unlacing their fingers, Petra presses a kiss to Dorothea open palm.

“Thank you,” Dorothea sniffs, “for sharing your home with me.”

“Our home,” Petra corrects. 

“I love you so much.”

“I am having… I love you.”

* * *

As spring passes, Petra notices a change in Dorothea. Dorothea seems restless, unbound. At first, Petra reasoned that it was due to the season. Spring is a time of great energy. However, as the season progresses, Dorothea only grows more and more agitated. She cleans and mends and sews, and when she is done those tasks, she looks aimlessly out the window. When Petra voices her concerns, Dorothea brushes her off with a smile and an ever ready excuse. Petra’s concern grows, but she cannot get an answer out of Dorothea. Eventually, Petra decides to trust Dorothea. To let Dorothea approach her when she is ready. 

Petra sits by the creek, watching the water flow over the rocks. Hearing the door to the cabin open and close, Petra watches Dorothea leave, her bright vermillion dress –the dress Petra broke– clutched tightly in her hands.

“Petra!” Dorothea calls. “Petra, love, please come here!”

“I am here!” Petra answers, rushing to meet Dorothea in the clearing.

“It’s whole,” Dorothea holds up her dress to show Petra. 

Petra runs a hand over the fabric. It is whole again. No visible stitches. It’s as if the tear never happened. 

“I have joy!” Petra says, smiling.

“I don’t,” Dorothea scowls. “I hate this!”

“I have confusion.”

“Petra, remember when you asked me where I am from? Why I came here?”

“I have remembrance!”

“The better question to ask is what I am.”

“Dorothea! Please! I do not have understanding!”

“I am not human,” Dorothea admits, voice weary. “I am a bird. When I wear this dress, I resume my true form. I go back to my world.”

“Your world?” Petra asks, her brain working extra hard to try and piece Dorothea’s story together. 

“Yes. Rather, I must go back to my world.”

“You are meaning to leave me,” Petra realizes, cold horror and shock flooding her whole body.

“Never!” Dorothea promises, eyes welling with tears. “I would never leave you. But, I don’t think I have a choice here.”

“Dorothea I–”

“I don’t want to leave!” Dorothea sobs, tears flowing freely down her face now. “You are my home, Petra! I don’t want to leave you!”

“Then I will being keeping you here with me,” Petra promises. “I will be keeping my promise to help you live the life you want.”

“Magic doesn’t work like that,” Dorothea’s voice breaks as her tears begin to flow. “And this time, I’ll never be able to sneak down here ever again!”

“Are we not having a way for you to stay?” Petra asks, desperation seeping into her tone.

“No,” Dorothea sobs. “I don’t think so.”

“I will not be accepting that!”

“Wait!” Dorothea’s eyes light up, her grief replaced with the smallest spark of hope. “Maybe there is a way!”

“Please! Be telling me at once!”

“Yes! Of course!” Dorothea laughs now, elated at her discovery. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

“Be sharing your discovery with me!”

Dorothea thrusts the dress into Petra’s hands.

“My magic cannot harm itself,” Dorothea recalls. “But you were able to tear my dress! Burn it, Petra! Burn my dress! Destroy my magic, and I will never be able to return to my world!”

“Are you having certainty?” Petra asks. “You cannot be having a second chance.”

“I have never been more certain of anything,” Dorothea affirms, grabbing Petra’s hand and dragging her back to the cabin.

Handing the dress back to Dorothea, Petra grabs the firewood and kindling and works at making a fire. While Petra is busy, Dorothea feels the fabric of the dress, running her fingers over it. The dress is a lovely, bright vermillion, and the fabric is cool to the touch. Dorothea scowls; as soon as Petra is done with the fire, Dorothea tosses the dress back to her.

“Will this be hurting you?” Petra worries, as the fire begins to grow.

“I don’t know,” Dorothea answers honestly. 

“I do not wish to be taking a risk–”

“I don’t care if it means I have a chance at being with you!”

Dorothea’s gaze is so intense, so full of hope and desperation in equal measure that Petra finds herself nodding. The fire roars now; the cabin unbearably hot with a fire roaring in it during the end of spring. Balling the dress up, Petra throws it into the fire. As the flames begin to lick at the fabric, Petra pulls Dorothea into her arms.

“Do you have pain?” Petra looks to her love, concerned.

“No?” Dorothea mumbles, unsure. “I feel strange.”

The dress is properly on fire now, and Dorothea stumbles. Petra is quick to move Dorothea to the couch. Sitting down, Petra pulls Dorothea onto her lap and cradles her.

“I can feel it unwinding,” Dorothea rasps, clutching at her chest. “My magic… It’s leaving.”

Petra nods, pressing a kiss to Dorothea’s forehead and praying for her to be alright. For this to be over quickly. Looking to the fireplace, Petra can see that the flames have eaten holes into the dress. The fire bites at the edges of the holes, the fabric fraying and curling in the inferno. Petra winces, imagining how Dorothea must feel. Dorothea shakes now, trembling so fiercely that the whole couch shakes with her.

“You have much bravery,” Petra whispers, pressing a kiss to the crown of Dorothea’s head.

Dorothea only hums, unable to speak past her trembling. 

“Soon,” Petra promises, seeing now the fire has burned at least half the material. 

Eventually, the last of the dress disintegrates in the flames. As it disappears, Dorothea stops trembling with a sudden and rather forceful gasp.

“It’s gone,” Dorothea wheezes. “My magic! It’s gone!”

Petra stays silent, trying to find any trace of regret in Dorothea.

“It’s gone!” Dorothea laughs, grabbing Petra and pulling her down for a happy kiss. “Thank you!”

“I have joy because you have joy,” Petra smiles fondly, allowing Dorothea to pull her in for another kiss.

“I’m free,” Dorothea giggles. 

“Yes,” Petra agrees. “You have freedom, and you are being home.”

“I’m _home_ ,” Dorothea whispers.

“Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to the wonderful and talented DValkyrie for beta reading this for me!!!!!! Go check out her Doropetra stuff, it's AMAZING!!!
> 
> Very loosely based off the Cowherd and Weaver Girl. VERY LOOSELY.


End file.
